


Masquerade

by unmeiboy



Category: Johnny's Entertainment, Kis-My-Ft2 (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Champagne, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Limousine Sex, M/M, Masks, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5565667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unmeiboy/pseuds/unmeiboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Senga is son to the owner of a large company; at a fancy masquerade party he meets a man he wants to take home. And Senga is used to getting what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

Senga has had his eyes on him from the moment their gazes met for the first time. He's shorter than himself, dark brown hair, seems well built under his blazer; not to mention under his white brand jeans, tight over his shapely thighs. His lips are full, leaning towards thick but in the attractive way, and they look incredibly soft when he puts his crystal glass to them; Senga hasn't even seen his entire face yet he _knows_ that he wants to feel those lips.

It's a theme party, only it has close to no specifications apart from hiding ones face. A masquerade in casual clothes. Fancy, but casual. It's also exclusive; only ones with connections are able to enter. In all, the hall Senga finds himself in, gold plated walls and pillars, mirrors and intricate flower arrangements, is filled with young people just as important as the building wants them to feel. Daughters and sons of company executives, powerful politicians, even the occasional foreign ones. Senga is one of them, important because he has an important father, but has no interest in making connections, despite that being exactly what both his parents had told him when they sent him off.

No, ever since he entered the building he has been set on this man. He doesn't make any efforts to talk to him, only watches him as he sips on his champagne. Before he knows it himself, he has finished one tall glass; finds it being taken out of his hand by a waiter only to be replaced by a new one, filled with the same sparkling liquid. He nods in appreciation, but doesn't shift his eyes towards the waiter, doesn't let the man out of sight. It's not that he's always staring at people, or like this guy is some kind of target for him. There had just been something about him. Something that he needs to know more about.

He had entered just minutes after Senga, and they had received their first glasses at the same time. Mostly for politeness they had done their cheers, together with three other newly arrived, but this man, who had been right in front of him, had done something unexpected. Because of the mask covering the upper half of his face it had been impossible to fully interpret his facial expression, but it has seemed like he was smirking while lifting his glass, dark brown eyes fixed on Senga's as he let the alcohol past his lips. But that had been everything there was before he turned and walked away; now Senga is getting more and more worked up about what it had all been about, but too shy to approach.

“Kento,” a voice whispers in his ear; at first he's startled by the use of his first name, before he remembers the second specification to this party. No last names. Last names reveal business connections and relations. “There's fireworks in twenty minutes, I overheard the staff. You wanna get a good spot?” It's Nikaido, his childhood friend, their parents fairly close both privately and in business; Senga turns to him with his reply in mind.  
“You go ahead, I'll come later. And hey, bring your sister, or have you lost her already?” From behind his mask he sees Nikaido rolling his eyes, and he nearly laughs at the stupid kissy face he makes to not-so-subtly suggest what his sister might be doing this very moment. It does seem like he sets out to find her, though, and Senga turns his attention back to his stranger. Or he would have, if he hadn't been gone.

It's not panic, far from it, but Senga still tells himself that he's overreacting when he immediately sets off to where he had last seen him. He tries to scan the ball room for him, but there is a lot of people with stylish brown hair and expensive blazers, and he starts doubting that he'll find him just like that. One deep breath, another sip of champagne (he can feel his body starting to grow hotter already), and he looks around once again.

And he's there. By the large balcony door, chatting with someone with an equally expensive-looking outfit, an entirely new glass of sparkling gold in his hand. There's something about the evening sun that makes him look even more handsome than before, if possible; hair nearly glowing, the light reflecting in the Swarovski crystals on his black mask, and shadows in all the right places. For a second he could swear that their eyes meet again, but Senga tells himself it must be because he's being blinded by the light behind the man.

Again, Senga draws a deep breath, and decides to do it. He walks straight up to the man and his conversation partner, interrupts them in a way that must seem both careless and with a slight lack of respect.  
“Hello,” he says as he steps into the conversation, effectively cuts it off. One of the men almost looks offended; the one that had smirked at Senga has a hint of entertainment in his eyes.  
“We met earlier, didn't we?” the man asks, his voice comfortably deep.  
“We did,” Senga is quick to answer, stretches his hand out to offer a handshake, “I'm S-, er, Kento.”  
“Difficult when you're used to saying your last name, huh.” There's a small laugh mixed in with his words as they shake hands; next to them his original conversation partner gives up and leaves. “Hiromitsu. Cheers,” he brings his glass up again, clinks it to Senga's before he drinks.

For a moment Senga has no idea what to say – his last name is his identity, his father's company a big part of his life, and there he is, not supposed to mention either of them. He falls silent, then probably starts blushing because this is turning much more awkward than he had hoped; the seconds before Hiromitsu saves him feel like minutes.  
“The champagne's good, isn't it?” He eyes the glass for a moment, then looks at Senga, and now that they're sharing actual eye-contact, it's even more difficult not to stare. The black mask frames his eyes perfectly, but doesn't block the sunlight when he turns halfway towards the balcony; what had been dark brown now looks like glittering amber.  
“Yeah,” Senga falls into the topic, “I think I've had it before. It's quite expensive, if it's the one I'm thinking of.”  
“As expected,” the man smirks. “That blazer looks like you'd know.” Senga is thankful for the mask now; he must appear so spoiled, but at least his blush doesn't show. Then again, the very fact that Hiromitsu is in the same building as himself right now, means that he isn't short on money either. “You wanna go out? It'll be cooler than in here.” Hiromitsu doesn't wait for an answer before he turns the whole way around and walks in front of Senga out the large, open doors; of course Senga doesn't have a single protest, follows just close enough that he notices that those tight jeans are perfectly fitted not only over his thighs.

When Hiromitsu ends up leaning on his arms against the stone railing of the balcony Senga decides to make a bold move, one he usually wouldn't pull but this man appears to be interested enough. If it succeeds he'll be one large step closer to where he really wants to get with this; if it fails, he'll have to work harder. Senga is used to getting what he wants, and if he doesn't get it easily, he just wants it more.  
“I heard there was going to be fireworks,” he keeps his voice low as though he's sharing a secret, speaks right up against Hiromitsu's ear; moves in far too close for it not to be obvious what he's hinting at.  
“Yeah?” That he doesn't move away, only turns his head at the same short distance, surprises Senga. When he turns around completely, leans back against the railing instead, nearly shocks him. “Good thing you didn't finish your champagne yet.”

Senga is about to suggest that they finish drinking and head somewhere more private, but that's when the first flash of light rises in the sky with a whistling sound, and most of the tipsy party attendants rush out onto the balcony. Hiromitsu turns around to watch as the sky is lit up over and over in every color of the rainbow; leans back against Senga when they get pushed together by the crowd. First he tries placing a hand on his hip, just lightly, slides it under Hiromitsu's blazer when there's no reacting. If anything, it has him take half a step backwards; Senga tests the limits, leans in and ghosts his lips over the back of his neck, blows softly over it as he squeezes his hip with the hand he still has there. No protests, nothing, just Hiromitsu leaning his head slightly to the side, as if inviting Senga. He doesn't act on his invitation, however, instead slides his hand down from that hip, brushes the back of it against his ass, then tries turning it over to squeeze, just softly, but he's close enough to hear the little sound that escapes his lips. Another squeeze, harder, then a couple more and he seems to start holding his sounds back; his breath hitches when he slides his hand between his legs once, and when he reaches around to feel at the front of his tight jeans, he's pretty sure he feels the beginning of a bulge that could end up very uncomfortable.  
“You know what,” Hiromitsu whispers, angles his head just enough that they are the only ones that hears his words, close enough that if he wanted to, Senga could just lean forward a couple of centimetres and kiss him; his lips ache to do it, but he holds himself back. “I think I'm not much for fireworks, after all.”  
“I'm sure I can find us something else to do,” he responds, and they're making their way out of the crowd before the firework show is nearing its end.

The previously crowded hall is much easier to navigate now that it's emptier; Senga considers the bathrooms first, but Hiromitsu seems to have other plans. He enters a corridor, one that Senga thinks is leading towards the entrance, and he speaks as they walk.  
“Call your chauffeur?” he says, agrees to being taken home without Senga even having asked yet.

Perhaps it's the lighting in the corridor combined with the mask covering most of his face, but Hiromitsu's eyes seem one shade darker when he looks Senga straight in the eyes, and there's nothing that can match the satisfaction he feels over having his prey agreeing to come home with him without actually asking. He does as told, picks his phone out of his pocket, dials the chauffeur assigned to him today; it's a short exchange of words but Hiromitsu still has time to thread fingers into Senga's hair, to pull him down to mouth at his neck and it's probably more to tease than to show off any kind of impatience. As response Senga slides a hand down his back pocket, pulls him closer and he regrets that choice immediately when it gets him a deliberate hip roll, but as soon as he hangs up, Hiromitsu pulls away.  
“Let's go,” Senga says, because really, this is what he came for. Not to make meaningless connections with other rich young people he doesn't even know the face of, but to find someone of his own social class to bring home for the night.

“What kind of car do you have?” Hiromitsu asks as they step outside; there's a couple of cars waiting in front of the entrance, but Senga sees his own before it drives forward to pick them up.  
“That one,” he points, and there's something dirty in the smile Hiromitsu wears when he sees it.  
“Fancy. Hmm, let me tell you a secret,” he says as they climb inside, doesn't continue until the door gets shut by Senga's chauffeur. “I've never been fucked in a limousine.”  
“Is that so?” Senga replies in a nonchalant manner, but once Hiromitsu has sat down on the seat that goes all the way along the inside of the car, he's already leaning over him, one hand on his shoulder in a way that could be an excuse for finding balance, only it's not. The engine starts and Senga holds Hiromitsu in place as he throws a few words over his shoulder. “Privacy screen up. Just drive around until I say something else,” and with a mechanical sound a screen impossible to see through comes up between them and the chauffeur.

He's fairly used to saying those words, prefers to know that whoever is driving isn't watching what he's doing with the ones he decides to take home, even though he only makes out with them on the way there; there's been some groping through clothes as well, at most. The thought of doing more, though, to undress Hiromitsu and take him right there, sends sparks of arousal rushing through his body, because even if the chauffeur can't see them, he'll still be able to tell what they're doing.  
“It's a pretty car,” Hiromitsu tilts his head up as he speaks, eyes shadowed by the glittering mask, but it's obvious that he's focusing on Senga's lips, doesn't even make an effort to look at the inside of the car.  
“Picked it myself,” Senga responds, smooths a hand along Hiromitsu's leg, guides him around until he's in the corner of the limousine, back against a wall but legs on the long four person seat. His palm is sliding up the inside of his thigh next, parts Hiromitsu's legs to get in between them without even a questioning glance to check if he's okay with it. Senga wouldn't force him to do anything, but he also doesn't deem it necessary to ask because there's no way he doesn't know what Senga wants, what he is planning on having, and judging by his suggestive comment as they got into the car, he wants Senga to have him.

So when they kiss for the first time, testing but confident from both sides, Senga already has his fingers working on Hiromitsu's pants, puts more of his focus into that than into what he's doing with his lips; kisses him deeper on instinct when sliding a hand up Hiromitsu's shirt results in a low moan against his lips.  
“Lift,” he mumbles without pulling back, and Hiromitsu helpfully obeys so that Senga can push his pants down to just above his knees. Some fumbling and he gets one of Hiromitsu's shoes off, which he decides is enough as he pulls one of his legs out of the tight, white pants, doesn't bother with the second leg because he has access to what he wants and that's all he needs.

Hiromitsu looks just like he expected, thighs strong, a hint of abs where his shirt has been pushed up; cock halfway hard and eyes filled with lust but waiting for Senga to act. He leans back and to the side, opens a hidden compartment from which he pulls out a small bottle and a condom package, puts both on the floor next to them as he sets himself back between Hiromitsu's legs. This time Senga wraps his hand around his erection at the same timing as he leans down to press their lips together again, and with a soft gasp Hiromitsu parts for him immediately, eagerly meets his tongue while Senga strokes him up and down until he's starting to move towards him. That's when he stops, reaches for the bottle with his other hand, and he's actually not sure Hiromitsu catches what's going on until Senga has his lubed up fingers rubbing against the rim of his opening; his eyes slide open when he pushes the first one inside, and despite the mask Senga thinks he sees a positive reaction on his face.  
“Wanna take it off?” he nods towards his mask, secretly hopes Hiromitsu wants to keep it on at least a little longer. There's just something enchanting about how the crystals reflect the weak light inside the car, something new and exciting, and Senga likes it.  
“Not if you don't want to,” Hiromitsu replies, voice different in a good way, and Senga rewards him with another finger (although perhaps it isn't that much of a reward, but it looks hot when he tries to breathe deeply like that). He's tight at first, loosens up fairly quickly once Senga picks up a slowly increasing pace, lips on Hiromitsu's neck to feel the hitch of his breath every time he thrusts his fingers all the way inside. If he wasn't getting impatient himself he could probably keep it up all the way home, fuck him with his fingers until he rides them instead; Hiromitsu would make a perfect mess, clothes halfway off and hair disheveled, body thrashing and that mask hiding all his facial features except lips parted to let nearly desperate sounds out. It's just his imagination, of course, but just that has Senga's cock straining against his pants and although he definitely wants to see if it would look like he thinks it would, he's not intending to wait longer than he has to. Assuming he's ready (and that he'll say he's not if he isn't) Senga inserts a third finger, only hears a low groan in response but then Hiromitsu tilts his head in his direction, angles it to catch his lips and when he does, he's not really in control of his own kissing, like his brain prioritizes everything but that.

With one hand still thrusting Senga pulls back a little, watches Hiromitsu's head fall back against the privacy screen as he fumbles with the fastenings of his own pants. He's not sure Hiromitsu hears the zipper over the sounds of the car and through his own cloud of pleasure, but when he pulls his fingers away he's not looking particularly disappointed. Senga is quick to get the condom on once he has his pants open and cock out, tries to hold back a moan at his own touch but fails to do so; the sound is echoed and he looks up to see Hiromitsu's jerking himself lazily, legs spreading further once Senga moves closer. After pausing to shrug his blazer off Senga loops his arms around Hiromitsu's thighs, tugs him backwards until he's flat on his back, then places the leg closest to the wall of the car over his shoulder as he positions himself.

As he starts pushing Hiromitsu lets go of his erection, unbuttons the bottom button of his dress shirt, then the top two, but doesn't make any effort to get more clothes off once Senga bottoms out inside of him. He has to stop, waiting to get himself together rather than for Hiromitsu to adjust, but it works both ways and when he considers himself ready to move Hiromitsu's cock is twitching against his stomach. A part of him wants him to beg for it, wants to hear how much he wants Senga to fuck him, to make him sweat into his expensive clothes, hear how he wants it so hard the chauffeur will notice from the movements of the car. Still he doesn't ask him, prefers his own imagination over reality because he'll be disappointed if it isn't what he wants (and he'll make it what he wants, anyway).

Hiromitsu lets his head rest against the seat, seems to leave the work to Senga and really, he doesn't mind. He grabs him by the hip with one hand, pulls back to give a testing thrust, repeats it, pushes Hiromitsu's shirt further up to find firm muscles tensing and relaxing; he splays his other hand over them, can feel eyes on him as he does but when he looks up the black mask gives the illusion of a glittering blindfold, and he can't help it when he thrusts harder at the thought. There's a moan that hints Hiromitsu liked it, another one when Senga deliberately repeats it, and they grow more frequent the longer he keeps it up.

He feels intoxicated, in a way that's more than the alcohol in his system; high on the sounds and the hot walls around his cock and the fact that he's doing a man that hasn't even seen his face, in the back of his own limousine, that he has no idea who it really is except that he has gorgeous eyes and a fantastic body, that he's rich and willing. The faster he goes, the more Hiromitsu spreads his legs, tries to rock into the thrusts although he's not really able to because Senga has a strong grip on both of his hips now. His erection is stiff and dark, leaking against his stomach, yet he doesn't make a move to touch himself; even though the way he's clenching around Senga can only mean one thing. And when Senga changes his grip, lifts Hiromitsu's hips right off the seat to pound into him he probably hits something spot on because his entire body tenses for a second as his voice goes up in pitch. Senga himself can't hold out much longer once Hiromitsu finally moves his hand, the entire arm shaky from the continuous stimulation he's getting, a little out of control because Senga is being quite rough at this point, and he only barely manages to see the two strokes that Hiromitsu gives himself before Senga comes as well. He lets Hiromitsu back down on the seat as his own hips flex against him, and he doesn't care the least if he's groaning through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

Eventually he pulls back, can't help but throw a glance at Hiromitsu's stretched hole, then focuses on getting the condom off to drop it into the waste bin, tucks himself back into his pants while he watches Hiromitsu on his back, breathing going back to normal. He doesn't bother him for now, just picks up the intercom mic as he sits down a little further away, where the seat isn't sticky with lubrication.  
“Drive home,” he says, a simple command, and as he puts it back in its place he leans over for some tissues, drops most of them on Hiromitsu's chest and uses the rest to wipe the seat. “Still coming home with me?”

Hiromitsu takes the tissues, sits halfway as he cleans the semen off his toned stomach, then looks up at Senga through his mask. “If we skip the masks from here on.” Senga chooses not to answer, just moves closer and reaches out for the fastenings of Hiromitsu's mask, pulls it off without any hesitation because he simply has a feeling that he's not going to be disappointed. And he's not. Those eyes are just as dark brown without the shadows, his skin is smooth and and he's just as handsome as the visible parts of his face had suggested. He takes his own mask off with the same hand, drops both of them to the limousine floor and shoots Hiromitsu an expectant look, gets a nod for answer to his previous question. “Sure.”  
“Good,” Senga settles between Hiromitsu's still spread legs and leans in to button his shirt all the way. “I'm going to fuck you again.”

By the time they arrive and the chauffeur opens the door to the limousine Hiromitsu has just gotten his pants back on and shoes in place, looks more or less presentable except that his hair is a lot less stylish (but it's fine, because Senga's probably looks worse) and it doesn't really matter anyway because it's not like anyone is going to meet them at the door.

When they get inside Senga suggest a shower and Hiromitsu must know that it's not really for them to clean up that he does; he seems to appreciate it anyway because he's probably still feeling sticky with lube and would like to at least get out of his clothes. And if Senga wants it to be in the shower, then shower it is. After guiding Hiromitsu to the bathroom that connects to his bedroom Senga lingers outside it, sends his father a message so that he knows he's home when he wakes up in the morning, then puts his phone on night mode as he puts it aside. He fetches a bottle of champagne from his discreet mini refrigerator, strokes the wooden outer panels of it as he closes it; he has no idea what wood it is, but he knows it's expensive because he picked it. Along with two crystal glasses and black wooden coasters he places it on the table by the balcony door, then heads for the bathroom.

The water is already running when he opens the door; Hiromitsu doesn't appear startled, probably expected to be joined. Senga makes short business of getting rid of his own clothes, only frowns when he realizes that he has a quite obvious stain from before next to his fly, then shrugs the thoughts away because it's not like he'll have to wash them himself. The moment he steps into the shower Hiromitsu turns his head, having been facing the wall, and Senga takes the chance to lean in and catch his lips in a kiss that could even been taken for romantic if it wasn't for how his hands simultaneously snake around Hiromitsu's torso, brushes a nipple, traces his abs, dips a finger into his belly button, rubs around the base of his now hardening cock, but doesn't wrap around it. He can feel on Hiromitsu's lips that it frustrates him a little; Senga is going to make him feel good, but in a way he wants to do it. And right now he has his mind set on that little idea he had in the limousine. Hiromitsu is responsive to the touch when Senga slides a hand to his backside, spreads his legs just a little bit, exhales irregularly against Senga's lips when he starts rubbing over his hole. There is a tube of lubrication right outside the shower; Senga has to break the kiss to reach for it with one hand, but once he has it he's quick to put it to use.

His first finger slides inside easily as Hiromitsu is still stretched from before, but he teases with it anyway, pushes it in and out, wants to hear him beg for more. In the end he gets no words, but the walls around him start clenching like they had around his cock, and he figures that's enough of a beg. Two fingers and Hiromitsu puts a hand on the tiles in front of him, leans his head to the side when Senga moves in to mouth at his shoulder, inviting him closer to his neck just like he had on the balcony. When Senga nips softly on his skin Hiromitsu's cock twitches, his breath hitches and Senga tries again, a little harder. It brings a moan out of him, which Senga hears himself echo even before he realizes how turned on he is, but he holds his urges back, speeds up the pace his fingers are moving in and soon he enjoys Hiromitsu's hard breaths, the sounds he makes when Senga bites into the side of his neck.  
“I'm okay, damn it,” Hiromitsu spits out, hips pushing back towards Senga and that's the cue he was waiting for. Not the words, because that's not good enough to be a beg, but his involuntary movements. He pulls his fingers free, lets the water wash the lubrication off them, then ignores his aching erection and steps out of the shower.  
“Here,” he hands Hiromitsu a fluffy, soft towel; watches as he dries himself off as quickly as he can, an annoyed look on his face. A look that Senga likes. One that says that he much more would have liked to just been shoved up against that wall, Senga's cock deep inside him, hot and hard. Or something equally visually pleasing.

But once they're dried off Senga drops his own towel right on the floor (it's not his job to wash his towels), smiles on the inside when Hiromitsu does the same, and after that the twenty-something meters to his bed feel more like two.  
“You don't feel like having more champagne, do you?” Senga nods towards the table by his balcony, where the bottle even he himself forgot while in the shower, but Hiromitsu grabs his hair and spreads his legs.  
“You've been teasing enough, get on with it already.” Perhaps he's so high on his arousal that he doesn't even notice how Senga finishes putting on a condom as he speaks, but when he rubs against Hiromitsu's opening he definitely notices. Senga pours lube onto his length and then he pushes inside, and it's as if some of the tension is released from Hiromitsu's body, although only until he realizes that he's going to have to work for it.  
“Use your pretty thighs,” Senga teases him, strokes along both of his muscular thighs, guides his feet down on the mattress, then urges him to move with a hand just above his ass, on the small of his back. “Show me how you want me to fuck you.”

It's not like Senga does nothing, he _can't_ do nothing, _has_ to thrust inside him shallowly, but he leaves it up to Hiromitsu to give him a show. And he does, at least for starters, pushes his hips up, takes Senga all the way in only to slide back down; Senga slides a hand over his tense abs, feels them work under his hand as Hiromitsu speeds up. It's hot, it's really hot, how needy he is and how he's getting short of breath out of his own effort, how his hair never really dried and the wet bangs fall into his face, and Senga can only hold back for so long. He grabs onto Hiromitsu's hips, thrusts slow but hard, gradually slides him up the mattress and he doesn't care that he gets the smoothly ironed sheets wrinkly in the process, he'll have them changed tomorrow anyway and all that he sees is the man beneath him.

Taking someone home from a masquerade party is risky, Senga had been aware of that ever since he left. They might turn out looking not at all what you hoped, and while some might argue that physical appearance isn't a big deal when you're just going to get drunk and have sex, Senga chooses to be shallow. So far he hasn't managed to bring home any disappointments, and tonight might be his most successful night ever. This one is so much what he likes, both appearance and how he is in bed. Lean muscles, obviously strong, probably a couple of years older than himself, but so willing, so needy for his cock, and even though he should be entirely occupied by fucking him he can't keep from wondering exactly who this is. He can't recall having seen him at non-masquerade parties, he would have noticed him (or at least the way his pants fit), and he has never heard anyone talk about any company director son named Hiromitsu. But he figures that maybe the name is just made up for tonight; who would know, except for the man with the guest list?

The loud moan Hiromitsu lets out all of a sudden calls him back from his thoughts; it comes again and he's a hundred percent focused on what's going on beneath him. Hiromitsu has given up trying to meet Senga's thrusts as they've grown harder (which Senga never even noticed), his head is banging lightly against the headboard and when he pauses to scoot him downwards a bit, Hiromitsu makes an almost growl-like sound.  
“Don't stop,” he begs, and just because he does, Senga changes plans. He pulls out, pushes at Hiromitsu to get him to roll over; he's on his hands and knees before Senga even says anything about it, and this time he decides to be nice. Or rather he decides that he can't take it because all he wants is to be back inside Hiromitsu, wants to watch his kind of gorgeous back and arms take the force of his thrusts. The muscles are all tense, in fact Hiromitsu's entire body is tense and he knows it's because he's close. He had been hard in the shower, leaking when he was filled up, _dripping_ when Senga hit his prostate just moments earlier. The sweat on his skin reflects the dim lighting in the room, accents the muscles further; Senga wants to reach out on touch them, but he's overwhelmed by sudden waves of pleasure and it's not until they're over he realizes that he just came without foreseeing it.

He's not about to apologize for coming first, not at all, if anything he has a tempting thought and that is to fuck Hiromitsu with his fingers again, but he collapses onto his front, turns onto his side, and Senga sees that there's nothing to apologize for.  
“Damn,” Hiromitsu breathes, eyes closed while he comes down, and for a moment Senga isn't sure at all what to say. “I can't even remember last time that happened.”  
“I hope that means I'm good.” Even if it wouldn't, Senga is totally going to brag about having made a man come only from fucking him.  
“You're a tease and you take your time, that's for sure.” Maybe Hiromitsu just doesn't want to admit he's as pleased as he is. “Might be because we went twice, I guess.”  
“Give me half an hour and I can do it to you again.”  
“Mhmm, sure.” Hiromitsu stretches his limbs while Senga lies down on the bed, gets under the covers when he lifts them. “I'm too old to have that much sex in one night.” Senga actually laughs at that, because come on, they can't possibly be that far apart age-wise. Still he doesn't insist on more, and before he even has time to turn the lights out, Hiromitsu is very much asleep.

When Senga wakes up the following morning his bed is empty, all the discarded clothes are gone from his bathroom, and he's just about to be irritated by being left without even a word when his eyes catch the champagne bottle and the glasses that are still standing where he left them. With short, fast steps he walks over there, picks up the bottle to put it back in his refrigerator, when he sees the business card left on it.  
“KH Corporation...” he mumbles to himself as he reads the back of the card; the logo seems familiar, but he can't seem to remember where he has seen it before. For starters he figures that he now knows why he hasn't seen of heard of this man at or in relation to the parties. He must be a young higher-up who just recently started going. That must be it.

But then he turns the card over and reads the name. It's in kanji, romanized in capital letters underneath it, and it's not until he reads them that he gets it. Kitayama Hiromitsu. He switches back to the look at the logo, then to the name. It can't be.

With the business card still in hand he sits down on the closest chair, one of the three that are paired with his table, picks out his phone and searches the web for KH Corporation. He finds the official homepage, skips reading the front page and goes straight to the “About” section, hoping to find information on staff. The first picture that shows up is one of a man he is certain is the one he took home yesterday. Kitayama Hiromitsu, CEO. Owner of the company. A company that has grown fast, and is now one of the most prominent importers of fine alcohol.

And maybe, if Senga wasn't so shocked by the fact that last night he fucked the CEO of a global company in his own limousine on the way home, he would realize that the phone number scribbled down next to the printed one must be Kitayama's personal number.


End file.
